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Wednesday, May 7, 2014

I had been
snoozing. I opened one eye, only to find a small crowd of people around the
bed. Then I remembered where I was. I was in Ward C21 at the UTH, waiting for
the operation tomorrow. I opened the
other eye. I could see immediately that the people around my bed were my
regular readers. All seven of them. I looked at them angrily. ‘Who told you I
was in here?’

‘It’s
not a secret that you’re in here,’ said Sally Chawama, ‘There’s even a story in
today’s Daily Nation saying Kalaki says
goodbye to all his readers as he leaves Kalaki’s Korner.

‘So
if I’ve already said goodbye,’ I snapped, ‘what are you all doing here? You
want me to say goodbye again. Goodbye. Shalenipo. I’m off!’ I pulled the
blanket over my head.

‘That’s
no way to talk to us,’ retorted Stella Sata. ‘All the years we’ve been reading
you and then you just up and off like you don’t even care! And daddy’s very
annoyed, he says you’re the only columnist who really understands him.’

‘Stella,’
I said, ‘what nonsense you do talk. If anybody understands your daddy it’s only
you, the rest of us are completely mystified.’

‘You’re
being very rude and most unfair,’ snapped Ruth Henson, who never minces her
words. ‘The story in this morning’s paper says that you’ve left Kalaki’s
Korner, and that you’re in the UTH for a serious operation. We’re very
concerned. We want to know what’s wrong with you.’

I
popped up out of the blanket and pointed a finger at Ruth. ‘I know your little
farm is boring, with nothing to do except talk to the goats, and that you
farmers count hospital visiting as a form of high entertainment, but you can’t
come here asking me what’s wrong with me. I’m not one of your damn goats to be
given a medical examination!’

‘Tut
tut,’ said Dodson Siabwanta, as he turned in amazement to Mwila Zaza, ‘this
fellow is just as insolent in real life as he is on the page!’

‘I
knew that already,’ cackled Mwila, ‘He’s probably been at the brandy again. In
fact you can be sure that’s why he’s in here. He’s got an enlarged liver.
That’s what happens when you get hooked on the brandy.’

‘You
can’t just all stand there talking to each other as if I’m not here!’ I shouted
angrily.

‘Why
not?’ sneered Symon Zulu, looking round at the other beds. That’s what all the
other visitors are doing, so why should we be any different?’

‘More
likely it’s an enlarged belly,’ declared Hope Nyambe as she unceremoniously
prodded me through the blanket. ‘Look at the size of his gut! There could be
all sorts of suspicious enlargements in there.’

‘It’s
definitely not an enlarged heart,’ laughed Stella. ‘This old man is famously
mean with his money.’

‘If
it’s not an enlarged liver,’ declared Dodson, ‘it’s more likely an enlarged
prostate. He’s just about the right age for that sort of thing. That’s why he
doesn’t want to tell us what’s wrong. These old men will never admit that their
equipment isn’t working.

‘Shut
up, shut up, shut up!’ I sat up and shouted. ‘If you must know, the problem is
that I’ve been suffering from an enlarged sense of humour.’

‘What
nonsense,’ retorted Ruth. ‘It’s us that suffer from your sense of humour, not
you.’

‘Look,’
I growled, ‘my job was to use my sense of humour to criticize politicians by
making them look ridiculous. But with this current batch, it just wasn’t
working.’

‘Why
not?’ wondered Sally. ‘Are they not ridiculous?’

‘Of
course they’re all entirely ridiculous,’ I admitted. ‘But the main problem is
that they are extremely dangerous. While I have been making people laugh at
them, I have deflected attention from the serious threat they pose to the
nation.’

‘So
you need an operation?’

‘You
see, as my sense of humour has become enlarged, so it has squeezed all the
other critical organs. My heart has been squeezed smaller, leaving me with
diminished moral sense. My brain has been squeezed, limiting my analytical
abilities. My nails can no longer scratch, my teeth can no longer bite, and my
eyes are now so faded that I can see only the laughable and not the disastrous.
My sense of humour has become so enlarged that it has encroached on all my
other senses! I have no option but to have it amputated! First thing tomorrow
morning!’

The
next evening they all came to see me again. They found me sitting up in bed,
glass of brandy in hand, reading the Complete
Works of Jurgen Habermas.

‘My
God!’ exclaimed Mwila, ‘this is very disappointing! We expected you to be still
in a coma, and on a drip!’

‘Don’t
interrupt me,’ I hissed, ‘I’m on the crucial chapter of Legitimation Crisis.’